Mommy loves you, shithead…

We’ve reached that stage in my two-year-old’s development where she is excited to go to the “potty” but no idea what to do once she gets there. Despite encouragement from me, and reinforcement of the idea that she needs to communicate and listen more frequently in other areas of our mother-daughter relationship, she still waits until her diaper has been put back on before she does a little dance in front of me, then squats dramatically at my feet to relieve herself. This is usually accompanied by impromptu vocal work on her part; singing for #1, yelling toddler obscenities at the carpet if #2.

Today, Siobhan has eliminated the Pampers middle-man.

This morning, I was rudely awakened by stupid credit card collectors who called at 8:01. Thanks fuckers. That whole minute you let me sleep in will be cherished and sung of for years to come. Remember in my last post, when I mentioned being up before my husband several mornings in a row, resulting in a very confused British man? Yeah, I’m making up for that nonsense now.

Insomnia, I thought we’d never see each other again… Asshole.

So, I had difficulty waking up all the way after I finally got credit card collector-person off the phone, and as a result my husband left our daughter in “baby jail” (a set of interlocking plastic barred partitions, up to 8 of them) in front of Nick, Jr. while I tried to finish getting up. Bear in mind, our kid — while tall for her age — is only 36″ and these gates are roughly 2-2.5 feet tall. By the time I’d gotten out there (five minutes after he’d left to meet his carpool, no longer), this is what I saw: She was perched in the highchair to the side of her “baby jail”, grinning at me and sing-songing a “Hi, Mommy!”, sitting on her haunches while she balanced on the balls of her feet, one foot on each plastic track (where the tray slides on)… pissing in her fucking seat until it trickled through the soaked cloth to drip into the carpet underneath.

Take a minute to make sure you read that correctly before we continue.

Cue the frantic “find-a-goddamned-towel-and-stick-it-under-the-pee-faucet-before-holding-giggling-hellspawn-at-the-end-of-outstretched-arms-during-the-mad-dash-to-stick-her-under-a-running-faucet” dance number, accompanied by the plumber knocking at my door and leaving because I couldn’t get back to him in time. (Luckily, he called and I was able to get him to come back… different story.)

Rather than kill my child, I got her cleaned up, let the towel stay where it was, and figured I’d just deal with the cleanup later. I cleaned up the discarded diaper and spilled snacks and sat and cuddled her in front of cartoons until it was time for her nap.

Lately, my daughter doesn’t nap. She plays for two hours in her room until I feel like such a horrible 6-o’clock-news-type-parent who locks her child in a closet with an Easy Bake Oven and half a Walgreen’s pharmacy, telling her not to come out until she’s got enough meth cooked up to pay for her preschool enrollment fees, that I just let her out. This traditionally results in Siobhan being too tired to eat anything I serve her, which I conveniently forget while I’m yelling at her in frustration because I’m worried social services is going to accuse me of starving my child, culminating in her passing out face-first in the macaroni and cheese and me having several shots of rum before putting her to bed.

So, precisely two hours after I’d put her down, I’m thinking I should go check on her and see if she’s hungry. I notice the odor of poopy diaper, wafting up from under her door, and roll my eyes because I figure I’m going to have to change a stinky one before I get to make us a snack. It’s always an adventure when I’m proved wrong in something.

I open her bedroom door, fighting my way past the toys she’s shoved up against the back of her door, to see her running at me. My daughter is butt naked, covered in her own filth, singing the theme song to “Go, Diego, Go!”, while wearing her shitty diaper on her head.

I put her back down for her nap, with a sippy cup, because — at this point? — fuck food. I’ll feed her when I’m sure I won’t puke on her. We don’t have that sort of mother-daughter relationship. Don’t judge me.

I love my child, but I honestly think sometimes that she’d be more at home in a family of monkeys.

Like this:

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I vividly remember when Oldest went through that phase. We have the incriminating photos to prove it, too, because he got bored and WENT BACK TO SLEEP with his naked butt in the air. I have also been guilty of the “you’re taking a nap” two hour abandonment thing — which I justified by telling myself they were better off learning to entertain themselves than driving their mother to homicide/suicide. I did get Middle Child to consent to naps if he was in front of the TV. To this day, he conks out in front of the TV all the time.

Just apply White Russians liberally and keep repeating, this is a phase, this is a phase….

The next time she does the funny poo-nappy dance, just take a video using your phone or camera. She might not care not, but in years to come you can show that shit to her prospective boyfriends (the ones you don’t like).

You have to PLAN your revenge, you see. Don’t go for the short fix, it’ll only last until the next urge to defecate and sing at once overcomes the world, go for the long slow satisfying revenge.

See, I’m fabulous at planning the international knitting of a 3.5 foot tall fucking robot based on a 2-dimensional image in a website logo, but remembering to keep a video capture device within arm’s reach at all times? Yeah, you’re asking too much of me there, mate.